


money's worth

by westron_wynde



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Painful Sex, Rough Oral Sex, actually emotionless geralt, bargaining with rapist, rape as payment for aggressor, rapist pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westron_wynde/pseuds/westron_wynde
Summary: For the prompt: "What about where the witchers' emotions--but more so empathy, are actually numbed like everyone says. So they don't mind, when the feeling arises or as payment for a contract, using someone's body. If the person is willing, great. If not though, it isn't a big deal."Geralt does a favor for the Count of Lettenhove, and is offered free use of his less-than-eager son as payment. He decides to make the most of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	money's worth

They say witchers don’t have emotions. Geralt’s inclined to believe it’s true. He feels pain, sure enough, and hunger, and arousal, and anger and frustration and annoyance. He feels content when his belly is full, when his cock is in someone, when he has a warm bed to sleep in instead of a bedroll in a cave. But more than that—the endless _feelings_ that humans rhapsodize about and torment themselves with—well, he’s never really felt any of that, himself, nor does he have much interest in it.

He pursues physical pleasure when he can get it, and when that means taking payment for a contract in ass instead of coin, he’s willing enough to make the exchange. Sometimes everyone has a nice time—he's not bad to look at, after all, and when a farmer's daughter is excited but a bit timid he's willing enough to go slow and eat her out first to make sure she's nice and wet for him.

But he doesn't much care when the daughters or sons—it's almost always someone's daughter or son they offer up in lieu of payment—don't want to be there. He's not unnecessarily brutal about it, mostly because it doesn't do to get humans angry at you more than necessary, and blood and broken bones tend to lead to anger (though what the idiots expected offering up their offspring to a witcher, he doesn’t know). He'll use grease or oil to keep from tearing up whoever he's with, sure, but he _is_ going to get his fair payment, and if that means fucking someone who doesn’t want to be fucked—well, _he_ has to do things he doesn't want to do all the time.

So one day he kills a pack of monsters on the lands of the count of Lettenhove—a tough job, one he come back from wounded, and the count takes one look at him dripping blood and ooze and calls for a hot bath to one of the guest rooms. Then he tells Geralt to leave the trophy in the stables and they'll settle accounts in the morning.

This is a welcome and unexpected show of hospitality, especially from a noble, even a minor one. Geralt enjoys his bath to the fullest; simple physical pleasures are the high points of his life, rare as they are. The price agreed on was 200 crowns, and he's pretty sure he'll get it, if the count is being this courteous to him.

In the morning, however, it turns out that the count was just buttering him up for negotiations. He strides into the room where Geralt is lying in bed, enjoying the silk sheets a little longer before he has to get up, and briskly says, “Now, I don't want you to think I'm trying to cheat you, but I have heard that witchers, on occasion, will take payment in, ah....favors, instead of coin?"

Geralt looks him up and down. “No offense,” he says, “but your ass isn't worth 200 crowns to me."

The count stammers and flushes but regains his composure after a moment. “No, well, obviously _I_ wouldn't—I mean—I have a son."

Geralt raises his eyebrows. "How old?"

"Eighteen next month," the count says, "and very well-favored, I assure you."

Geralt _hm_ s, and thinks about it. It's been a few months since he got laid, and a young man sounds about right, though not two hundred crowns worth of right. "Has he agreed to this?" Geralt asks.

The count looks a bit taken aback. "Well, no," he says after a moment, "but I was given to believe that, ah, that his consent wasn't strictly necessary."

"It's not," Geralt says. "Just curious. Tell you what, if you let me fuck him I'll cut the price in half." When the count looks like he's about to argue, Geralt goes on. "I can get a whore in any city for ten crowns, and a clean one for twenty. Can't expect me to pay more than a hundred for yours."

Finally, with a brief show of huffing and minor indignation, the count acquiesces, and asks Geralt if he'd like breakfast before, or after. After, Geralt tells him; he always works up an appetite fucking the unwilling ones.

He doesn't bother getting dressed, and sure enough, a few minutes later he hears the sounds of a struggle outside the door, a young man's voice protesting loudly, and then the door opens and two burly guards manhandle the boy through. 

He _is_ well-favored, the count didn't lie about that. A pretty face, soft hair, but a broad body—the sort of frame that could grow to be hellishly strong if the bearer ever did any real work in their life. This boy hasn't, that much is obvious, and the guards deposit him in front of Geralt more or less effortlessly before vanishing back out the door, which closes and locks with a dull click that makes the boy jump.

He's dressed, but only in his sleeping clothes and a robe that he clings tightly shut around him. Geralt snorts at the sight. "Think I can't get that off you?"

The boy blanches. "I—no, I—please don't do this," he begs, his voice low and serious. "I don't want—I've never, not—not with a man, not like that, and I don't—"

Geralt stands up, blankets falling off him, and watches with enjoyment as the boy blanches from his full size and visible strength. "What's your name?" Geralt asks.

"J-Julian," the boy stammers.

"Well, Julian," Geralt says, and strides over to him and yanks the robe out of his grip and off his shoulders in one easy motion. "I'm going to fuck you. Your father gave you to me in exchange for a hundred crown discount on my fee, so I expect to get my money's worth. I'm sure he won't be happy if I walk out of this room demanding the full amount after all, will he?"

Julian shakes his head and can't seem to form words.

"Then we understand each other," Geralt says. "Take off your clothes, unless you want me to tear them off. Don't imagine you'd fancy walking back to your own room naked, though."

A moment passes where it seems like Geralt _will_ have to strip the boy himself, and he can't deny it would be a pleasure to rip those soft linens right off him. but then Julian, hands shaking, starts to undress, his pale face flushing as he drops his trousers and underclothes.

Geralt watches, his cock—already half-hard when he woke—swelling further at the sight of Julian's nude body. He's soft, yes, but handsome enough, hands smooth and free of callouses except some odd-looking ones right at the tips of his fingers. He looks _noble,_ more than anything else, and Geralt grows hungrier and hungrier to despoil him.

Julian's eyes seem stuck on Geralt's erection, and he flinches as Geralt reaches for him. "Look," he says, his voice catching in his throat, "why don't—I could—you don't have to fuck me. I could, I could suck you off instead, that would be good, right?"

Geralt wonders if Julian has ever had a cock in his mouth before. He wouldn't be surprised; there's something dissolute about the boy, a sort of spoiled air of indulgence. He's been to university, most likely, and they all fuck each other there, as far as Geralt has heard. 

Still, experienced or no, he looks like putting Geralt's cock in his mouth is the last thing on earth he wants to do. Luckily, Geralt doesn't care.

"You want to suck my cock?" he says, raising an eyebrow. Julian flushes even deeper.

"I mean—if you—if you don't—I could do that," he says, stumbling over his words—and then, with the briefest flash of bravery, "I could make it good."

"Go ahead then," Geralt tells him, "on your knees."

Julian does know what he's doing, as it turns out—there's not a trace of teeth to graze Geralt's cock as he feeds it into Julian's open mouth, though it's clear from the way Julian coughs and sputters that he's never had anything quite this big in there. Still, he gamely keeps trying until he can fit several inches in, swirling his tongue around Geralt's cock in a way that actually feels quite nice.

Unfortunately for him, it's not enough for Geralt, and before long he sinks his finger's into Julian's hair—which is as silky and well cared for as it looks—and tightens his grip as he pulls the boy's mouth lower and lower, fucking inexorably into his throat until he's gagging and tearing up, hands scrabbling uselessly at Geralt's broad thighs.

The choking makes the tight clasp of his throat even tighter, and Geralt eagerly fucks his face for the next several minutes, enjoying himself to the fullest. Julian seems unable to adjust, drooling copiously and choking and gagging the whole time as tears overflow from his squeezed-shut eyes. It feels amazing, and it doesn't take long at all, really, for Geralt to come with a loud growl, pulling back a little to make sure Julian can taste it on his tongue. He pulls out when he's done, and before Julian can spit Geralt is clamping his jaw shut with an iron grip.

"Swallow," he tells him, and Julian, grimacing, eventually manages.

Geralt pays him little mind for a minute, sitting back down on the bed as he strokes himself idly, his cock still mostly hard. "You’re right, that was good," he tells Julian, who flinches from the praise, wiping a wrist over his mouth to catch the little drops of spend that spilled from his lips.

"So," Julian says—his voice noticeably hoarser than before—"are we, um. We're done, right? Payment concluded?"

Geralt laughs derisively and fists his standing cock. "Does this look done to you? We're done when I've had your ass, and not before."

Julian's eyes go wide. "But you said—you wouldn't—you promised—"

"I never said any such thing," Geralt tells him, and Julian's whole body seems to sag as he starts to cry in earnest.

He's easy to deal with after that, like maybe he's finally realized that he doesn't have a say in how this is going to go, or at least realized that Geralt is much, much bigger than him. He goes on his hands and knees when Geralt puts him there, still weeping quietly, which turns to louder sobs when Geralt presses his slicked up cock to Julian's tight, unyielding hole.

"Come on," Geralt says, annoyed, and slaps Julian's ass hard enough to make him yelp, hard enough to leave a lasting red handprint. "Loosen up, unless you want me to make it hurt more. Some people do like that," he adds, smirking, and Julian shudders all over, letting out a desperate, hopeless little moan that goes straight to Geralt's cock.

But he listens, because with the next push Geralt actually manages to get the head of his cock in, and from there it's just a slow, delicious (or agonizing, he supposes, for Julian) process of sinking deeper, inch by inch, into the boy's hole that still feels almost impossibly tight. 

"Come on," Geralt says—more than halfway in now—"surely this isn't the first cock you've had up your ass."

Julian shakes his head, still hiccuping sobs. Frankly Geralt's not sure what that means—no, it is? No, it isn't?—but he also doesn't much care. When he finally gets in all the way, he takes a moment to savor the hot clasp of Julian's ass, to just enjoy the feeling of him—hole still frantically fluttering as though it could somehow possibly push him out—before starting to fuck the boy in earnest, pulling almost all the way out and slamming all the way home again each time. The impact shakes the most exquisite whimpers out of Julian's mouth, and Geralt can smell the heavy salt scent of his tears, and while he could happily spend all day taking his payment out of the boy's tight ass, he only manages to last ten minutes or so of hard, deep, punishing thrusts before he can feel his second orgasm approaching.

By this time Julian has pillowed his head on his hands and is almost limp, all resistance gone as he cries quietly to himself, hissing occasionally in fresh pain when Geralt goes particularly deep or speeds up his thrusts. As Geralt moves faster, grunting low and savage, he watches Julian's shoulders tense up and knows the boy is anticipating the end of his ordeal.

Well, let him anticipate it; Geralt won't begrudge him that. After all, he's the one who gets to come inside Julian, fingers digging into his pale hips deep and hard enough that they'll certainly leave bruises. He rests inside for a minute as his cock finally starts to go down before pulling out, and when he does, he spreads Julian's cheeks apart—ignoring his humiliated attempt to wriggle out of Geralt's grip—and watches his spend drip from the boy's abused hole until he's satisfied.

"There you go," Geralt says, and slaps Julian's ass as he stands up. "You've done your duty like a good son. I'm sure your father will be proud of you."

Julian only bursts into fresh tears at this, curling in on himself in the middle of the bed, but that's none of Geralt's affair. He dresses and leaves to collect his hundred remaining crowns, and considers himself well-paid.

He'll have to start swinging by Lettenhove more regularly, he thinks as he rides away. Surely there'll be more work for him next year—and more work means more payment.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me [on Tumblr](https://westron-wynde.tumblr.com/) where I take a variety of dead dove prompts! Also, if you want to reblog this fic, you can [do so here!](https://westron-wynde.tumblr.com/post/645117894602145792/moneys-worth-westronwynde-the-witcher-tv)


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